Looking For Silver
by ADreamingSongbird
Summary: Your name is Jane Crocker, and you don't understand. You have pretty much everything a girl could want... so why do you always feel like something is terribly wrong? A serious story that attempts to examine depression and how it affects a person. No pairings. Warning for depression, obviously.


_AN: This was written as a result of the culmination of a lot of stuff just taking its toll on me and my own mental health. As someone with depression, I hope I could do this justice. That being said, __**this piece might be triggering **__in some regards-there is no self-harm or suicide, but there are depressed and suicidal thoughts. I wrote this mostly as a way of venting my own feelings, and to try and truly express what depression is, at least to me, and what it does and how it does that, again at least to me, because it affects everyone in varied ways. Disclaimer - I do not try to represent what depression does to everyone, nor do I try to present myself as an authority on the subject. I'm just writing from my own perspective and my own experience. If this offends anyone, I do apologise. _

_The title comes from the idiomatic expression of a "silver lining in the darkest of clouds"._

_Thank you very much for reading this. I hope you enjoy it._

* * *

Your name is Jane Crocker, and you don't feel so well.

Not that your physical state leaves something to be desired; no, that's not it. Your body feels fine. It's... well, it's your mind that's troubling you. Because for some reason, today, just like the past several days, you feel like you're just lost in a fog of confusion and it sets you apart from your daily life. It's kind of concerning to you, because even though the days when you feel like you really, honestly can't reconnect to the cheery, lively girl that most of your companions see are not every day, they are becoming more frequent. Two weeks ago, after you spent an hour sobbing into your pillow but you really, honestly had no idea _why_ you felt so sad and empty, you finally approached your father about it.

To your relief, he was gentle and understanding about it. You had sort of been worried that he might tell you it was nothing and to get over it—but why would you think that? That was irrational. Just like a lot of the thoughts plaguing you, it was irrational. But knowing that they were irrational doesn't make them go away, and you are really starting to _hate _it with a fiery passion that you usually only reserve for baking.

Ah yes, and that brings you to something else that you hate: the way that you don't love your life and your passions the way you usually do, the way you used to. At least, not on your darkest days, you don't. Sometimes, you wake up and you look out the window and the sun is shining and the birds are chirping and the sky is a bright, beautiful blue, and you think that wow, you really feel happy today—honestly, truly happy. But sometimes, you wake up and the world might still be beautiful, but you can't bring yourself to see it, and you don't know _why _you feel so awful about yourself, your life, everything.

Your father had finally taken you to a psychologist, because he was getting worried at your lack of joy, of interest in anything. And you received a diagnosis that both relieves and terrifies you.

Your name is Jane Crocker, and you have depression.

It relieves you in a way, because at least having a diagnosis lets you know that there is something legitimately wrong. That sounds strange, but you feel like your feelings are validated—it's not just that you're being dumb, it's that there is a chemical imbalance in your brain, and that's why you feel like you do a lot. It's an illness just like any other, and you take comfort in knowing that you not only aren't just stupid and crazy, but also that you're not alone. And if it's an illness, then you can recover from it.

But on the other hand, it terrifies you because you _know_ what depression can do to people. You have heard all too many stories about someone's cousin's best friend who jumped from a bridge, or someone's neighbor's niece who hanged herself, or—well, you don't really like to think about it. In the past, you wrinkled your nose in confusion and distaste, wondering why anyone would ever even consider killing himself/herself, and then brushed it aside and moved on with your life. Now, you think you're starting to understand, because in the dark of the latest hours of the night sometimes as you sit on your bed staring at the confines of your cozy room, illuminated by a warm golden lamplight, you stare at the ceiling and think that wow, life really sucks and you really suck at life and maybe it would be easier if you just didn't exist.

And then you pull yourself back from that brink and freeze, petrified and clutching the blankets around yourself as if you are a child again and hiding under the covers can save you from the monster under your bed, except that the monster isn't under the bed, it's inside your head and you can't hide from it. You don't—you don't want to die, you would never want to die, you have so many things about your life that you love, so many people that you love, you could never leave them. And honestly, the idea of dying absolutely _terrifies_ you.

At school, you idly doodle in the margins of your notebook and ponder your own life. It is enjoyable, and you are certainly privileged; you have money, a degree of fame, and a secure future. What, then, is the reason for you to be depressed? You don't have justification. There are people out there who have it much worse than you do. You're just being stupid.

_You're don't deserve anything more_, a thought whispers, and unbidden tears spring to your eyes. You quickly blink them away, pressing your pencil into your hand too tightly, and the lead, pressed far too hard against your paper, snaps with a loud _crack_ in the silent classroom. You feel your face flushing and quickly turn away before you accidentally meet anyone's gaze. _Clumsy, silly, useless..._ No, no, no, you don't think that about yourself, do you? You are clumsy, yeah, and you can be silly, but at least you can laugh at things (yourself included), and you ... you're not useless. You're not useless... right? Are you useless? Are you really? You kind of... you kind of think so, you realize with a jolt.

"Miss Crocker?" The teacher's voice breaks into your thoughts, and you look up with a jolt. "Are you okay?"

"Y—yeah, I'm fine," you quickly say, miserably forcing a smile that probably doesn't look as fake as it feels. "Sorry, I just got distracted."

"It's fine," your instructor says, still looking at you with a measure of concern. Has she noticed the tears in your eyes? God, you hope not. She hesitates for a second, and leans in slightly, lowering her voice. "Now, Jane, I don't know if something is wrong, but you know we do care about you, and if you need anything, we want to be here for you, alright?"

You feel ... touched. It's nice that at least she's trying, and even though you're pretty sure you're not going to take her up on her offer of ... talking about how two weeks ago you got diagnosed with a mental illness, you feel a little warmer. "Thank you," you say.

"Anytime, dear," she replies, patting your shoulder before she walks away. You stare at your halfhearted effort at taking notes. The writing is sloppy and full of terrible abbreviations that you're pretty sure won't make sense later, and halfway through you just ... gave up trying to take notes. The doodles in the margins aren't even that pretty either. You just stare and stare at it and as you do, you feel revulsion rising in you.

Later, you're back at home, lying on your stomach on your bed with your laptop on your pillow and your biology binder lying closed next to you. Usually biology is your favorite subject. But today is just one of those days when you can't recall what it feels like to be joyous or to truly enjoy what you're doing, and you just really want a hug, but your dad is away on a business trip—at sixteen, you're old enough to manage the house alone for a few days, right?—and your nice, spacious house is full of emptiness and your inner demons that just won't leave you alone. When you were walking home from school today, you found yourself wondering whether the cars rolling by were going at high enough speeds to be fatal, before you caught yourself with another jolt of fear and shock at your own thoughts. You're kind of scared—more than kind of scared—to be on your own for the next few days.

Blankets and stuffed animals are nice, but you just really want some company right now. You cannot stand the thought of being on your own with only your thoughts to accompany you. They won't leave you alone and it's frightening you again, because you just had the "it would be easier for everyone and for myself if I just died" thought again and no, no, no! You do not want that thought! You want it to leave you alone! And just like that, the desperation in you starts to overflow and the next thing you know, you're crying, great heavy sobs and you didn't even know you could cry so hard you couldn't breathe, but apparently it's possible because you're doing it right now and you just keep crying and crying because you don't want to die but something in you does, and you are so, so scared and helpless and alone and those keep magnifying it.

"I don't want to die," you whimper, as if saying it out loud might make it more true, more solid. "I don't want to die. I—I want to live. I want to live, I want to live!"

The shadows clutching at your mind start to recede, but just for a moment, and then they come back and you start to sob harder, gasping for breath and curling into a tight ball, tucking your knees under your chin and rocking back and forth and trying not to scream.

You don't hate yourself, do you? You like yourself well enough, right? You have pretty hair, you look really cute in that red dress, and you can bake a mean cake. But if you like yourself, why is that every time you look in the mirror, all you can see is that you're short and starting to get a little chubby and that your eyes are abnormally bright blue, and when you think of yourself you automatically start to think about how you are no good at precalculus and you can't quite wrap your mind around French either and you just aren't good at most sports and that no one really needs you—

Wait. What? Are the demons telling you that no one likes you now? Well, isn't that just fabulous, you think cynically, letting out a sad, hysterical laugh that chokes into another sob halfway through. You have friends, and you can tell them anything, and they can tell you things. They've all texted you first before, they all still initiate conversation just as much as you do! That means they don't hate you or anything like that! And yet as soon as the thought comes to you, you feel this great doubt that what if they're just trying to humor you and be nice, what if you're just a bother?

You don't think they would do that to you. You really, really hope not.

But just to be sure...

You gather your courage and furiously scrub at your eyes, wiping your damp hands on your jeans before you pull your laptop over to you, feeling fragile still like you might burst into tears any second again. The stuffed bunnies that Jake and Roxy sent you are sitting on either side of you, the wizard bunny's robes rather rumpled and stained by your tears as you'd sobbed into it. Opening BettyBother, you click away all the awful ads that somehow make you feel worse about yourself—_you're slow and behind, why have you still not switched to PesterChum_—even though it is quite possibly the most ridiculous thing to be feeling bad about, and look to see who is online, squinting through your terribly nearsighted eyes.

Roxy and Dirk are both there. Jake is probably off watching a movie or whatever. Hesitating, you sniffle and draw a deep, shaky breath that makes you nearly start to cry again, as your mouse hovers over their names. Roxy will probably be easier to talk to, if she isn't drunk. You click on her name and the chat box pops up. Your fumbling fingers type out a message:

GG: Roxy. I have a weird question for you.

Wait no, you might not want to ask her if she's not sober. Somehow, you don't want to deal with all the misspelled words and all the laughter. You don't think you can handle that. Quickly, you delete it and try again.

GG: Hi, Roxy.

It's simple, and her response will tell you whether you can talk or not. If not, well... you can't force yourself to be chipper like usual, so you might just tell her you had a bad day and then say you're going to bed. But your pinky hesitates for far too long before you force yourself to press 'enter', looking away and minimizing the window as you do so. If she responds, that'll be good; if she doesn't, you'll just feel dumb in the morning for all of this. You never fail to do that. You don't know why, but sometimes you find yourself hating yourself _because _you have depression, which is just plain stupid. Depression is confusing and hard and you really don't like it one bit.

There is a 'ding'.

TG: hi janey!  
TG: whats up over there in washington?

Oh, rats, you don't know how to go from here! She doesn't seem drunk, which is surprising because it's about four in the morning for her, but you're not going to question it. You are glad that she's not drunk.

You take another deep breath, trying to gather your thoughts, which are scattered in that awful mental fog that you've come to recognize as depression, before you type a response.

GG: I have a really weird question for you.  
TG: lol okay, shoot!  
GG: What would you do if I died?

Here it is, the moment of truth. As soon as you press enter you minimize the window again, unable to look at the words 'if I died' staring at you in your bright cheery blue text. You do not feel bright or cheery. Maybe you should change your text color to a dark blue. It would fit you better. But you feel tired and drained from all your bawling. You don't have the energy to change your text color right now.

There is a moment that takes too long for your liking between your sending of the message and Roxy's response. When the 'ding' finally comes, you hesitate again before opening the page.

TG: i would be really, really sad. and i would cry a helluva lot bc i love you a helluva lot. and i would want to know if i could bring u back.  
TG: janey... why r u asking me that?

You swallow another sob, honestly feeling too tired and not wanting to go through another bout of being unable to breathe because you're crying too hard. A hot tear slides down your cheek as you blink furiously so that you can see the screen through the blur of your already bad vision, obscured further by the tears that won't stop welling up.

GG: I...  
GG: I have something I should tell you. I don't know why I didn't say it sooner.

And suddenly you freeze up again, not sure what you should say or how to say it or—

TG: what is it? pls don't stall, im worried now

Oh, no, you're crying again, but not those great heaving sobs, just the soft quiet weeping because the tears keep coming. You don't know how to stop crying and you feel kind of helpless, but you started this, so you have to see it through, for Roxy's sake at least if not your own.

GG: Two weeks ago, I was diagnosed with depression.  
GG: And I'm...

You're trying to figure out how to say you're just having a really bad night when she interrupts, almost immediately after you sent your last message.

TG: oh FUCK no! dont u DARE try anything involving self harm or suicide or i swear i will find a way to get myself over to your house so i can hug you so hard that you wont be able to move toward anything that would hurt you!  
GG: I ...  
GG: I'm not that bad, Roxy.

You leave the 'yet' off purposely. There is no need to upset her further. What were you thinking? She was in a good enough mood, and you had to go and upset her with this.

GG: I'm sorry if I worried you. I didn't mean to.  
TG: no no no janey dont say that  
TG: dont u DARE try to hide this from me, ever! i mean it! bc i love you like i said and i dont want anything to happen to u and that includes anything that u want to do to yourself! if u need me i want u to promise me that u will tell me

You choke on your own tears, and squish the wizard bunny to your chest again, burying your face in its soft ears. Gosh, you just really, really wish she was _here_, right with you, not over on the other side of the country.

TG: janey?  
TG: r u there?  
TG: janey please answer  
TG: jane?  
TG: oh god  
TG: jane please tell me ur okay

You feel a stab of guilt as you hear the successive 'dingdingdingding'. Of course she'd be worried, you weren't replying. You keep the bunny in your lap as you lean forward again to squint at the screen.

GG: I'm here.  
TG: oh thank god  
TG: promise me?

You bite your lip, but only for a second's worth of hesitation. This was exactly how you told the depressed thoughts that they were wrong. This was what your counselor recommended. You needed to go find examples of how the depressed thoughts weren't true, to convince your own mind not to put stock in them.

GG: I promise.  
TG: good.  
TG: [ sent]

It is a truly ludicrous gif, but it succeeds in making you let out a watery giggle, which you guess was its purpose.

GG: Thank you.  
TG: no problem janey  
TG: i just wish i could do more for u! :(  
TG: like, if only i could be there with u.  
TG: do u want to watch a movie? we could put on video chat and stream a movie  
GG: Yes, please.  
GG: That sounds heavenly.

Yeah, you are definitely not up to telling all of your friends in one night. Maybe you can tell Dirk tomorrow. But Jake... oh, gosh, you have no idea how you're going to approach your crush about this. Nope. You don't even want to think about it, because your lack of romantic ability is just one more thing you're not good at and _no_, you are not going back down that lane, you refuse. But maybe... maybe Roxy can help you out on this front.

GG: Also, can I ask a favor?  
TG: anything.  
GG: I want to let the boys know too, because... well, it's only fair, but... um...  
TG: u cant tell Jake?

She is so astute. You love your Roxy Lalonde, she doesn't make you spell out these kind of embarassing things all the time. You pull your blanket more tightly around yourself and your wizard bunny and let out another watery giggle-sob, wiping at your eyes again.

GG: Yeah.  
TG: i gotcha. dont worry ur pretty little head about mr handsomepants english, ill tell him.  
TG: do u have any particular timeframe? or do i just spring at him as soon as he gets his butt online?  
GG: Tomorrow, please. I'll talk to Dirk and then you can tell Jake, if you don't mind.  
TG: of course i dont mind janey, i wouldnt have offered if i minded!  
GG: Thank you so much, Roxy.  
TG: you know i would do anything for u right?  
TG: bc i would  
TG: ur my best friend in the world, janey

You sniffle again, but this time it's...happy tears. God, though, you'd like to stop crying sometime tonight. It's late and crying is tiring and makes your head hurt. But you're still not sleepy.

GG: Thank you. A lot.  
GG: I love you.  
TG: i love u too  
TG: [ sent]  
TG: what kind of movie do u wanna watch?  
GG: Something lighthearted and cute, I suppose.  
GG: Nothing sad.  
GG: I have enough sadness to last me a good long while.  
TG: awwww honey :/  
TG: i will find the cutest movie ever and take away ur sads  
TG: forever  
TG: bc u deserve happys  
TG: idk if thats actually a thing like sads is but  
TG: u deserve happys

You sniffle again, burying your face in your bunny. What did you ever do to deserve such a good friend? Someone like you, someone who is—no, no, no, you aren't going back downhill, Roxy is bringing you back up out of the deep dark pit and you're not going to sit here and try to throw yourself back down by letting those thoughts come back.

Your name is Jane Crocker and you want to want to live.

It is hard. It is really, really hard to want to live, to try your best to maintain the spark of joy in your life, and it's really tiring, and by four in the morning when you finally finish your movie-watching, you're exhausted, and you're pretty sure that you can see sunlight behind Roxy, who must have pulled an all-nighter to watch movies with you. You feel a little stab of guilt for that, too, but somehow she recognises the look on your face and shushes you before you even open your mouth, saying, "Jane Crocker, if you're about to apologize for keeping me up all night, I _will _pop up on your doorstep and smack you."

"But I _want_ you to come over," you say plaintively, not bothering to play along and dropping your gaze. "So I should apologize." You don't feel up to keeping up a pretense of being chipper and lively, because you're too tired, but you want her to know that she has helped you a lot and that you just really love her for being your best friend and sticking with you.

"Oh, Janey..." her voice almost breaks, and when you look back up at the computer you can see her looking back at you with the most wistful expression. "I wish I could come over. I really do."

"Me too," you admit, your voice shaking slightly.

"You should go to bed," she adds gently. "Don't go to school tomorrow, just say you weren't well. And if you want, I can tell Dirk to message you first so you don't have to worry about that, either."

"_You _should go to bed," you point out, wiping at your eyes. "I think I will stay home... but it's so lonely. Dad's out on a business trip, and it's just me here for the next few days. I don't—I don't think I can do it, it's too quiet and there's no one here..."

"Oh, honey," Roxy says in that same gentle, wistful tone. Part of you thinks that she must be really sober, and then you start to wonder how long it's been since she last drank. Maybe she's trying to kick the habit? You hope so. Drinking so much isn't good for her. "Just call me a lot, if you want. Whenever you're awake, you can call."

"Do you not have school to be going to?" you ask, blinking. "Are you skipping, too?"

A brief look of alarm crosses her face that you can't figure out the reason for before she quickly covers it up with a breezy smile. "Oh. No, I'm homeschooled," she laughs. "Haven't I told you that before?"

"Sorry," you immediately cringe, cursing yourself for being stupid and forgetting simple facts about your best friend. Some friend you are. "I guess I forgot. Sorry."

"Nooo hush, hush! You don't need to say sorry, it's fine!" she immediately says, waving her hands at you frantically. "But really. You look exhausted, Janey. Go to sleep."

"Okay," you say, because you feel exhausted, too, so exhausted that it takes you a minute to wonder if she is just trying to get you to go away. But she isn't, because she could have done that at any point in the last three hours, you tell yourself.

"Good night, Jane. I love you," Roxy tells you in what might be the most serious voice you've ever heard from her, as if she just really, really wants you to know how much she means it. You think you might be tearing up again, and you squeeze the bunny that's the closest you can get to hugging her.

"I love you too," you say, and then with a sense of growing melancholy you go to bed.

You briefly wake up in three hours when your alarm that you didn't think to turn off last night goes off to alert you for school, but you blearily swat at it and disable it, grumbling to yourself about how tired you are, and quickly fall asleep again in the warmth of your blanket cocoon. You have a dream that you can't quite recall when you wake up, but you have a feeling Roxy was part of it, and when you wake up for the second time, much later in the morning, you are feeling pretty happy, though you feel a little longing, too.

It's strange, but in a good way. For the past week you've been in the clutches of your depression, and now that you're _not _you can palpably feel how much happier you are, and the feeling of feeling happy makes you happy enough that you could sing, so you do, trilling the lyrics to an old folk song that you vaguely remember Poppop singing sometimes as you twirl through the kitchen to make yourself a plate fluffy golden pancakes. They come out delicious, just like they usually do, and you eat with a feeling of great satisfaction.

You pirouette across the floor as you put away the dishes and dance your way back up into your room, where you proceed to clean everything that's out of place or needs cleaning. It feels good, and you feel productive, and the end product looks a lot better. You feel very pleased with yourself for this.

You don't really have anything to do now, though, so you pull out your computer again and look at BettyBother. Roxy is offline—probably still asleep, not that you blame her. But as if summoned by your presence, which you guess might be true considering that a notification saying "Jane is online" would have appeared, Dirk messages you, his name lighting up in the contact list as your computer dings again.

TT: Good morning, Jane.  
TT: Aren't you at school right now?  
GG: No, though I usually would be. I stayed home today.  
TT: Oh.  
TT: Everything alright?  
GG: Um, yeah!  
TT: ...  
TT: Roxy told me that I should message you because there was something you had to tell me.  
TT: Does this have anything to do with why you are not at school?  
GG: Oh. Right.  
GG: I had kind of forgotten that I asked her to do that.  
GG: But to answer your question, yes, it does.

You stop, surprised at yourself. Even though you are thinking about the fact that you have depression, you don't _feel _it so strongly right now. You feel yourself still being happy, and though you do still feel kind of silly for making such a big deal out of it last night, you still notice the birds chirping and the sun shining and you really think the world is beautiful.

TT: ... So?  
GG: Sorry! I got distracted for a second.  
GG: You know, I don't want to die.

You reread that sentence and pause. Oh. Oops. You _might _have wanted to reconsider the phrasing there, throwing that at him out of the blue. This is what happens when you don't think before you press enter... Nope, no, hush, you're going to have a good day! And you can just explain that statement, no worries. This _is _what you intended to do in the first place, after all.

TT: Well, that's always good.

You have to laugh, leaning back against your wall and basking in the warm sunlight streaming in through your window. Oh, only Dirk would reply with that.

TT: But a little context might be helpful.  
TT: You know.  
TT: It is a little concerning when one of your best friends tells you that something's wrong with another one, and then you message the second one and the first thing she says is about fucking dying.  
GG: Oops.  
GG: That wasn't phrased very well.  
GG: Okay, actually, I'm just going to start from the beginning.  
TT: Good idea.  
GG: Okay, so... um...  
GG: This is exactly what I told Roxy last night. I'm just going to copy and paste it.  
GG: Two weeks ago, I was diagnosed with depression.

You bite your lip, waiting for his response. As the little pencil animation is picked up, writes, erases, and settles again, you distract yourself by looking out the window into your yard. The tree in the back is in bloom, light pink flowers floating daintily by on the warm late spring breeze. It is beautiful, and you enjoy watching it. The world is beautiful, and you want to live. Living is hard, but you want to live.

TT: I see.

He is silent for another few minutes, and you guess he's just trying to process this information and how to respond to it. But hopefully he's not all worried! That's not your intent, not in the slightest!

GG: Yup. I just wanted to let you know.  
GG: I just was having a really bad night, last night. That's why I'm not at school today.  
GG: I was up really late watching movies with Roxy. And I didn't quite feel up to getting out of bed on three hours of sleep.  
TT: I'm glad at least she was there for you, then.  
TT: But if there's ever anything I can do for you at all...  
TT: If you need me to send you something, if you just want to talk, whatever.  
TT: Just say the word, and I'll be there.

You can't help but be touched, feeling that same fluttery warmth rising in your core like it had when your teacher told you she cared, but a lot more of it because you know you can trust Dirk with your life, kind of literally here. And even though he's in Texas and you're in Washington, you're just really glad that you have friends who are perfectly willing to be there for you. Honestly, you were a _little _bit—just a smidgen!—afraid that Dirk might be someone who didn't take depression seriously, like a lot of people who don't know what it really is and what it really does do, because he always is just so logical about everything, but you see now that your fears were unfounded.

Gosh, you are so lucky that your friends are just so great.

GG: Duly noted.  
GG: Thank you, Dirk.  
GG: It means a lot to me.  
TT: Hey, it's what friends are for.  
TT: Depression is fucking hell, I know.  
TT: Just take it easy, and don't hesitate to come to me if you need anything. Or if you have another bad night, just call.  
TT: Actually, make that a promise. If you have a bad night, you call one of us if you can't get to your dad or something.  
TT: Okay?

You can't help but think it's a little funny that both Dirk and Roxy decided to extract what essentially amounts to the same promise from you, but it's good. It makes you feel warm and happy inside, rather than cold and hollow; you smile as you type your reply.

GG: Okay. I promise.  
TT: Good.  
TT: So how are you now?  
GG: Better, I think.  
TT: I'm glad.

You chat with him for the next few hours, and Roxy too when she comes online. It is a pleasant way to spend your lonesome day, especially when the three of you turn on a group video chat—Jake is _still _not online, the silly boy, but since you're feeling this fragile even though you're on the happy side, you think that's probably a good thing. And in any case, you're perfectly happy with Roxy and Dirk, even if you're not crushing on them. Maybe not crushing on them makes you happier with them. It's confusing.

But you don't really care to dwell on the confusing nature of your love life, or rather the lack thereof. You prefer to laugh at Dirk and Roxy's banter as you move your laptop to the kitchen and start to bake yourself a double-chocolate fudge cake, to be eaten with Häagen-Dazs brand chocolate ice cream. If you are going to do what the stereotypical sad teenage girl does and eat a lot of ice cream and chocolate, you are going to do it in style, you say, and Roxy makes you stop cooking long enough give her a virtual high five.

You spend the rest of the day in their company, until the late hours of the night. As the evening draws on into dusk that melts into darkness, you start to feel a strong, strong feeling of longing, because you know they're going to have to go soon, bcause you can't all stay awake all night. You just want to remember the good feeling you have right now, and cling to it forever, but the fact that you can't stop thinking about how they have to go is kind of ruining it for you; there's an almost palpable ache in your heart that you feel every time you look at them. But you try to quell it and ignore it and just be glad, as happy you can. And when everyone signs off to go to bed, you reflect that you still feel happy. And for the first time in a long while, you also feel content.

Your name is Jane Crocker and you are a rich, intelligent girl with a secure future, good family, and excellent friends.

Your name is Jane Crocker and you have depression.

Your name is Jane Crocker, and you think you're going to be okay.


End file.
